


Undercover

by justfandomthings



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF John, Hurt John Watson, M/M, Tumblr: fandomwritingchallenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-25 15:44:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10767354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justfandomthings/pseuds/justfandomthings
Summary: Written for the Fandom Writing Challenge from Tumblr. Prompt: Clubbing. Sherlock and John go undercover at a club in order to catch a murderer, and things don't go as planned.





	Undercover

**Author's Note:**

> Contains slight homophobic language/characters.

Cool, observant blue eyes scanned the patrons of the dimly lit nightclub. Leaning against the bar with a glass of wine in his hand, stood a handsome, curious-looking man in his late thirties. His blond hair was styled neatly, and the grey jumper he was wearing was just snug enough to tease the muscles hidden under the garment.

Away from prying eyes, a man only a few years younger sat huddled in the corner booth of the nightclub. His dark brown curls were ruffled, and despite the man’s observant nature upon all of mankind, at this particular time, the man only had eyes for one person. And, that person happened to be John Hamish Watson, who was stood at the bar nursing his drink.

John turned now, eyes casting left and right as he vainly looked for any signs of hidden danger. He still leaned against the wooden surface behind him, but under the watchful eyes of the lurking man in the corner booth, it was apparent that the man was ex-military. Which, of course, the brown-haired, piercing blue-eyed man already knew. He was Sherlock Holmes, and the man he was watching would be his flatmate, and more importantly, good friend.

They were undercover in what Sherlock had reluctantly admitted was one of the most “wonderfully frustrating” cases he had been challenged with as of late. An unknown assailant with a hatred towards all those homosexual had managed to stalk and kill four gay men before the police had realized the murders were connected. Detective Inspector Lestrade had summoned the help of ‘Consulting Detective’ Sherlock Holmes and his flatmate/blogger/friend John Watson to investigate the murders, and as time worn on, three more men had been killed.

There seemed to be no connection between the seven men besides the fact that they were all gay. At least, not until Sherlock had figured out that all the men had been at the same nightclub on the night of their respective deaths. Surprisingly enough, it had not been Sherlock’s idea to go undercover, despite the detective’s unlucky nature to get into danger. It had been John’s. John was the one who had went to Lestrade and told him that he wanted to go undercover. And, John was the one who had protested until Lestrade had relented and given his consent on the idea- provided Sherlock go undercover as well, and both Lestrade and Sergeant Donovan be waiting nearby in an unmarked police vehicle in case their assistance was needed. And, so due to John’s request, they were undercover at the club.

Across the dance floor, pale blue eyes met dark blue eyes. Sherlock smirked ever so slightly as he raised his glass at the ‘stranger’ stood at the bar. With a small smile of his own, John made his way through the crowd of people on the dancefloor and over to where his friend was sat. “Has someone ever told you that your small size adds to your cuteness?” Sherlock asked loudly to be heard over the roaring music. He watched, pleased, as John’s cheeks became red. John was a better actor than he had given him credit for; the blushing, while most likely helped along by the hot, crowded club, did appear to an untrained eye to be caused by the flirting of a handsome stranger, and a likely, new partner. Not as a result of good acting.

“Maybe once or twice. Certainly never by anyone as handsome as yourself,” John smiled in return. He gestured to the seat besides Sherlock. “May I?”

“Go right ahead.”

The men conversed quietly for several minutes about possible suspects, but much to Sherlock’s frustration, not one of the men they had observed seemed to be the man they were after. As their conversation continued, John slowly edged his way closer to Sherlock until their thighs were touching. At the contact, Sherlock froze.

“You are very handsome,” John murmured, raising his hand to cup Sherlock’s cheek. “Ease up, I think I have caught the attention of our suspect,” he added, his voice just loud enough so Sherlock could hear him. At these words, the detective relaxed instantly and played along, leaning ever so slightly into John’s touch. Sherlock did not fail to spot John tense besides him, and knew instantly that John was not tensing at his touch, but rather, at something he had seen.

“You are as well,” Sherlock breathed, meaning every word. Raising his own hand, he gently ran his thumb across John’s lips; an action that was sudden and unexpected, but not intended to make John feel uncomfortable. He could feel John tense under him, this time for different reasons than before.

“Sherlock…” John whispered, voice strained. He glanced up, and his eyes widened ever so slightly. Pulling away, John stood quickly. “Thank you for the company, mister. I guess I’ll owe you a drink later. Come find me!” John called loudly as he made his way onto the dancefloor. He could feel the weight of a man’s eyes on him, and he made his way through snogging couples and dancing couples on the dancefloor before he reached the bar.

Ordering his drink, John took a moment to compose himself as he sat down on a barstool. Moments later, he was joined by two men. “Quite a handsome man you were with just now,” the man on John’s right said. “I’d love to have him!”

“He is good looking,” John agreed good naturedly. He glanced at the two men stationed besides him and mentally decided on which man must be the suspect. “You know, you look familiar to me. Have we met before?”

“I don’t believe we have. I’d surely remember a handsome face like yours,” the man flirted in response, but beneath the leering tones, lurked a threatening growl just dying to be released.

The man on the right brought John’s attention back to him. “What’s a good looking, fit man like yourself doing here? Someone like you should have a boyfriend!”

John laughed. “Oh, I don’t have a boyfriend. Haven’t been that lucky when it comes to love, I suppose. I figured I’d might as well give a nightclub a fair try.” It was now that John realized his drink had already arrived. Grabbing his glass, John took a long swig of his soda. He was on a case, after all. He couldn’t risk getting drunk on a night like this.

From Sherlock’s booth, the detective sat with his hands clasped together, deep in thought even as he stared at his friend seated at the bar. There had been something there, between him and John just a few minutes ago. For an instant, Sherlock could swear that he had seen John’s eyes flicker to his lips as if he had actually _wanted to kiss Sherlock._ Not to mention that due to their close proximity, he had been able to feel the frantic beating of John’s pulse. Certainly not for the first time, but at least this time around though, Sherlock dared to hope that his hidden love for John might be returned.

“You left that man you were with awfully quickly,” the man, who was not John’s suspected murderer, commented. “Not interested?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” John laughed. “He’s certainly handsome…”

“Well, you would know,” the suspect replied, taking a long sip of his drink. “Look, mate, I’m going to say this straight out. We’re talking to you because we have a friend who thinks you are handsome. He’s too shy to ask you out himself, you know the quiet type, so we were wondering if-”

“I’m really not interested in a relationship at the moment,” John answered truthfully. “I’m flattered that your friend found me worthwhile, but I’m not really looking for anything longterm.” _At least, not with anyone who isn’t Sherlock._ As discretely as possible, John took a sip of his drink and looked up to meet Sherlock’s eyes. Much to his dismay, he found that Sherlock was no longer sitting at the corner booth. Where did his friend go? Sherlock had been at the booth only a few minutes before and he knew that John thought he had spotted their suspect, so where did he go in such a short span of time?

A sharp sting in his neck cut into John’s thoughts and he uttered a soft gasp as his hand flew to his neck. Wide-eyed, he turned to look both at the man to his left, and then to the man on his right. In the left man’s hand was a small syringe, the vial empty. John, who had already deduced what had happened, was dismayed to see the empty vial that revealed his theory. He had been drugged.

“Sorry, mate,” the man on the left said with a little shrug. “You were the lucky one to have caught my eye. Usually I go for brunettes. Like your friend, Sherlock Holmes. But, I guess tonight I was just in a-”

“Leave him alone!” John demanded, but his words were slurred together. His mind slowly comprehended the amount of danger he was in with being drugged and surrounded by the murders- _there were two of them, how could they have not realized there were two of them?_ \- and in a desperate attempt to get away from the men, John leaped off his barstool and tried to walk away from the men.

“Where are you going?” The man on the right grabbed John’s arm before he could pass, causing the increasingly-weakening man to slump against him.

“Leggo of me!” John protested weakly, tugging on his arm only to find that he was unable to make his arm cooperate with his demands. He just felt so tired and moving his arm required too much moving and...and...everything hurt…

John felt himself being guided towards the door of the nightclub, but even as his mind silently screamed for him to fight back and escape, John found himself unable to pull away from the man holding his arm, nonetheless put up a fight. “ ‘Lock…” John groaned, and then a flashing pain exploded across his head and he slumped unconscious as the two men threw him into their car and sped off into the night.

Sherlock was deep in thought, still seated in his booth, when he heard the sounds of a man yelling loudly from outside. “Leave me alone!” The voice, although not familiar to the consulting detective, was high-pitched and filled with fear. _The murderer must have circled outside to capture his victim,_ Sherlock thought as he stood and quickly took the exit in the back to get to the back alley. Had he waited only a minute, he would have seen that his friend was actually the intended victim, and was sorely in need of his help.

When Sherlock arrived outside, he found Lestrade and Donovan already there, wrestling a boxer, given the man’s firm build and sturdy muscles, to the ground. Donovan reached behind her back and drew a pair of handcuffs, slapping them on the man’s wrist. Shooting a quick glance at the pale, wide-eyed man leaning against the wall, Sherlock quickly realized that the boxer had been attempting to rob the other man, only to be startled by the man putting up a fight and the sudden arrival of the police, who of course, had been lurking nearby. This wasn’t his man. The real murderer was still inside the nightclub.

The real murderer was still inside the nightclub.

Where John was.

_“Ease up, I think I have caught the attention of our suspect…”_

“John!” Sherlock gasped, whirling around at the sound of John’s voice echoing in his head from their conversation only minutes before. How could he have been so foolish, so blinded, to have thought that the murderer was in the back alley when John had even _told_ him that he thought he knew who the murderer was?

“Sherlock?” Lestrade asked at the same time as Donovan spoke, “Freak?”

Without bothering with a response, Sherlock ran around to the front of the nightclub and threw the doors open, ignoring the protests of everyone as he darted inside. He glanced around the club, eyes widening when he failed to spot his flatmate.

At the buzz of his mobile in his pocket, Sherlock absently reached for his mobile as he jogged through the crowd of people to the restrooms, vainly trying to convince himself that John had merely gone to the restroom instead of being kidnapped. His heart seemed to stop as he read the text on his lockscreen: _I have agents trailing the car that your doctor is inside. There are two men. MH._

Whirling around, Sherlock bumped into Lestrade, who had evidently followed him inside the club.

“Sherlock?” Lestrade asked, obviously reading into Sherlock’s haunted expression.

“There are two kidnappers, and they have John!” Sherlock snapped furiously, typing into his mobile. A moment later, he pressed his mobile to his ear. “Mycroft, where is he?” Sherlock demanded, already heading out of the restroom and for the nearest exit.

“We’re in the process of closing in now,” Mycroft said with more kindness in his voice than Sherlock had heard from his older brother in years. He allowed himself to hesitate for only a moment, considering why his brother was being so kind and not teasing him for caring ( _caring is not an advantage, Sherlock)_ before he dismissed the thought and responded to his brother.

“Is he alright?” Sherlock raced to the police car and sent Donovan a death glare. “Get out, and take him with you.” Donovan, perhaps thrown off by the frantic look in Sherlock’s eyes, did as the detective said without any comment at all.

“Sherlock!” Lestrade cried out, annoyed, when Sherlock slid behind the wheel. “What are you doing?”

“Going after the men who took John, obviously,” Sherlock huffed, taking the keys he had lifted from Lestrade’s pocket only moments before. Lestrade frowned, hesitating momentarily before climbing into the passenger seat. “Mycroft, is he alright?”

“I’m not letting you go alone,” Lestrade rolled his eyes at Sherlock’s confused look his way as he buckled up. “Let’s go.”

“He’s…” Mycroft hesitated in his response, and the silence caused Sherlock to grip the steering wheel tightly in a death grip; his mobile placed on the dashboard and on speaker so Sherlock could continue the conversation without holding his mobile in his hand. “From what I saw on my camera, he was clearly drugged at some point given his sluggish movements. He was knocked unconscious with what appeared to be a wrench before he was taken away.”

Sherlock’s voice was tense as he bit out, “Mycroft…”

“My agents are taking every possible precaution and they will get him back safely,” Mycroft said gently. “Where are you going, Sherlock?”

“I’m going to get John back,” Sherlock snapped. “It’s my fault he was kidnapped- I made a mistake and my carelessness is the reason he was kidnapped-”

“No, it wasn’t,” Mycroft said calmly. “These men were after Dr. Watson, Sherlock. There was nothing you could have done to prevent this. They knew you were after them, I’m sure, and targeted John to get to you.”

“Fine. Text Lestrade the location of the car and keep him updated on where they are headed.” Taking one hand off the steering wheel, Sherlock ended the call. Lestrade’s mobile buzzed within a few seconds, and with Lestrade updating Sherlock on the location of the car, both Mycroft’s agents and Sherlock began closing in on the car.

With the car in sight, and Mycroft’s agents rapidly closing the distance between them and the black sedan, Sherlock knew instantly what his brother’s agents were going to do. As the first car slammed into the passenger door of the sedan, the car spun out of control once until stopping after the car had jumped the curb. Before the driver could open his door, Sherlock rammed into the driver’s side of the car, eliminating any options of escape.

Both Lestrade and Sherlock were instantly out of the car and running over to the sedan, with Sherlock struggling momentarily with the door before he was able to throw the back door to the sedan open. “John!” Sherlock cried out, leaning into the car. He was unable to climb into the car since John was sprawled over the entirety of the backseat, eyes closed and face pale.

“Don’t take him out of the car!” someone ordered, but Sherlock ignored the demand as he brought his hands under John’s shoulders and very carefully pulled John closer to him until he, with the help of Lestrade, were able to lift John from the car.

“Gently now,” Sherlock commanded as he lowered himself to the ground. With Lestrade’s help, John was laid down on the ground, with his head in Sherlock’s lap. Hand trembling slightly, Sherlock pressed two fingers to John’s carotid pulse, exhaling slowly when he felt a steady, weak beat under his hand.

“There’s an ambulance on the way,” Lestrade informed Sherlock as he knelt down on the ground besides his friends. “And both suspects have been caught by Mycroft’s men.” He sighed as he looked at his police unit. The front of the car was smashed in, and the hood had risen up slightly. “How the hell am I going to explain that?”

“Not important,” Sherlock mumbled absently, lost in his own thoughts as he gazed down at the pale face of the doctor; the paleness contrasted by the harsh tone of the blood trailing down the side of John’s head. “Oh John…”

“We should have killed him when we had the chance!” A loud, hate-filled voice snarled from nearby, and Sherlock glanced up sharply, glaring at the two suspects being led to one of the agents’ cars. “Disgusting _filth_!”

A threat rose on his lips and stayed there as Sherlock remembered the last time he had threatened someone. John had not taken kindly to the threat and had told Sherlock off for his behaviour; an experience Sherlock was more than happy to not relive. He took to glaring at the suspects with contempt in his eyes, a good portion of him wishing he could stand up and put the murderers back into their places with a few well-aimed punches, and spiteful words.

In his arms, John sighed deeply, the effects of the drug still keeping John well-confined in the depths of sleep. His features were wiped of all pain, and he almost looked peaceful in Sherlock’s arms; his facial expression an illusion to the underlying pain and trauma haunting the unconscious doctor.  

Wailing sirens warned Sherlock of the rapidly approaching ambulance, and when the paramedics did finally make their way over to the three friends, Sherlock watched their every move carefully, and demanded his way into the back of the ambulance, refusing to leave his friend alone for even a minute. Inside the ambulance, Sherlock took John’s limp hand and held tight. He had been careless in leaving John alone in the nightclub, and there was no way in hell he was making the same mistake twice. From now on, he would be at his friend’s side to protect John from any and all harm.

As John blearily blinked his eyes opened, the sight that met his weary eyes was one that made the corner of John’s mouth turn up in a smile. Slumped over in a chair brought over to the edge of the hospital bed was Sherlock, one hand tightly holding John’s, and the other resting on John’s knee. The position was in no way comfortable for the dozing detective, and John contemplated momentarily what he should do because, knowing Sherlock, this was the first time the detective had slept in days.

Eventually sympathy for Sherlock’s sore neck and back if he stayed in that position won, and John found himself gently squeezing the hand held in his as he whispered the detective’s name softly. With a start, Sherlock awoke and sat upright.

Wide, worried blue-gray eyes skirted over the doctor, taking in every line of stress and worry on his face. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as he observed the dark circles under John’s eyes, and his glare turned to a death stare when he noted, for the twenty-sixth time since John’s rescue, the faint needle mark in John’s neck from when he’d been poisoned from the two murderers.

“John,” Sherlock said quietly after thirty seconds of quick deductive concluding. “How do you feel?”

Shrugging, John replied earnestly, “I’m exhausted.”

“Yes, well being dosed a sedative does have the tendency to make someone tired.”

“I thought you didn’t like when someone stated the obvious, as you so clearly just did,” John managed to tease lightly, his eyes brightening momentarily before his face fell. Voice significantly quieter, he asked, “What happened?”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed with concern. “Do you not remember?”

“I remember getting pricked.” John’s hand strayed to his neck, and he frowned, moving his hand to the lump on the back of his head. “They must have hit me with something, because I remember pain, and then I must have blacked out.”

Sherlock nodded in confirmation; Mycroft had shown him the CCTV footage. “A wrench,” he confirmed. “You were trying to fight them, as weak as you were…” He paused, and John was surprised to hear the underlying pride in Sherlock’s voice before he continued, “And, that’s when one of them grabbed the wrench from the car and hit you on the back of the head.”

John stifled a yawn before he queried, “How did you find me?”

Wincing, Sherlock said, “Mycroft. He had been watching the entrances to the club through his cameras, and texted me to say that his men were following the car you had been tossed into.” He hesitated only for a moment before he blurted with emotion, “I’m sorry!”

“For what?” John asked, confused. Much to his surprise, he was startled to see deep pain and self-hate in Sherlock’s eyes as the detective stared at him before looking down at the ground.

“It’s my fault you were hurt,” Sherlock muttered, ashamed.

“No it wasn’t,” John said firmly, but Sherlock just shook his head.

“You told me that you thought you had figured out who the murderer was… you said you were being watched… I left you… and you got kidnapped and hurt as a result…” Sherlock refused to meet John’s eyes, and the doctor was stunned when he saw the trembling of Sherlock’s lower lip.

“Sherlock, look at me,” John commanded gently, but to his dismay, the detective shook his head and continued to stare at the ground. “What did you see, or hear, that made you think someone was in trouble?”

This made Sherlock start, and he looked up quickly at the doctor.

“Don’t look so surprised, Sherlock.” John winced at an unexpected jolt of pain in his head, but continued resolutely, “You would never have ‘left me’ as you put it, not after what I had told you, not unless you thought the murderer was making his move. My back was to your table, so you didn’t leave through the front… you went into the alley?” John guessed.

Sherlock nodded silently.

“What happened in the alley?”

“Attempted robbery. By the time I got there, Donovan and Lestrade were handcuffing the suspect.”

“See?” John managed a weak smile. “I told you that you wouldn’t have left me unless you thought it was important.”

“But-”

“Sherlock, it’s fine,” John said firmly. “None of this was your fault; I don’t blame you in the least for what happened.”

“But, John-”

“Sherlock, listen to me, please,” John requested, a hint of desperation in his voice, and Sherlock fell silent. “This was _not_ your fault, okay? Those two men, they told me that they wanted to kidnap me. Had you been there, they would have hurt you, maybe even someone else, just so they could hurt me. I was their target all along; nothing you could have done would have stopped them from trying to hurt me. And, I wasn’t hurt, not really, this is just a concussion, and that’s nothing I haven’t had to deal with before.”

“It’s still not okay,” Sherlock muttered. “It’s not okay that they hurt you, and that they targeted you, and kidnapped you… none of that will ever be okay.”

“You caught two murderers before they could kill anyone else. That’s what is important.”

“Your health is important too!” Sherlock exclaimed.

Blinking in surprise, John nodded slowly. “Yes, I suppose it is, just as your health is as well.”

Sherlock rose from his seat, pacing the room for several minutes, deep in thought. John watched him, yawning occasionally as he fought the urge to sleep. Finally, Sherlock returned to John’s side and sat back down in his chair. “I was scared,” Sherlock said quietly. “I thought they were going to kill you, and I was afraid we weren’t going to get to you in time and it would be too late.”

“That thought never crossed my mind,” John replied earnestly. “I knew you had my back.”

At Sherlock’s upset expression, John hesitated and then tried to lighten the mood, “I believe I owe you a drink.”

“What?” Sherlock asked, confused at the sudden change in topic, as he looked up to meet John’s eyes.

John shrugged. “At the club, we got interrupted and I believe I promised you a drink. I just realized I never had a chance to buy you one.”

“Ah. Well, you’ll have plenty of time to buy me one when you are released and are healed from your head wound.” Sherlock looked back down at the floor, suddenly recalling their time spent together in the club, and how he had wondered if John had wanted to kiss him.

“I meant it, you know.”

Sherlock raised his head and sent John a questioning look. The doctor’s cheeks were tinted red with a slight blush as he murmured, “When I told you that I thought you were handsome. I wasn’t trying to put on a show, or uphold our cover- well I was!- but, I truly did mean what I said. I was being truthful.” John groaned a little when he finished, both from embarrassment at his stuttered confession, and from his headache.

“Oh. Well, um, that was… kind of you to say.”

“For heaven’s sake, Sherlock, just say yes already! We all know you want to be with him!” An exasperated voice tutted from the doorway, and both Sherlock and John looked up in shock to find Mrs. Hudson standing in the doorway, an annoyed yet fond expression on her face.

“Mrs. Hudson!” John exclaimed, and then winced at his own loud voice. “What are you-”

“Honestly, John, did you honestly think you could get hurt and Mycroft and Detective Inspector Lestrade would fail to notify me? Mycroft sent a car out right away once he got word you had awoken, and so here I am!” Mrs. Hudson floundered into the room and kissed John’s cheek and ruffled Sherlock’s curls fondly before heading back for the door. “I’ll leave you two to it now, I’m sure you’ll want your privacy, but honestly, Sherlock, do say yes already? The way you two act around each other- it really is quite amazing that neither of you seem aware of each other’s feelings.”

“Mrs. Hudson-” John began, but was cut off.

“Well, I best be off. Feel better, John! I’ll be by later, I just wanted to make sure you were okay.” Mrs. Hudson took one look at her boys and laughed gleefully. “Mycroft’s going to owe me twenty pounds after this! He said after two hours, and I said before one was up! Looks like I am going to be right,” she exclaimed, and left the room.

Stunned silence filled the room until John spoke up, “What just happened?”

“It would appear Mrs. Hudson was trying to set you and myself on a date,” Sherlock said slowly, gauging John’s expression carefully before he continued, “And, I’m afraid I must disagree with her.”

John’s face fell slightly. “Oh...why?”

“Well, I am not going to say yes,” Sherlock said confidently. “ _You_ are… well, I hope you are going to.” Before John could interrupt, Sherlock said in one breath, “John, would you like to go out with me, for a drink?”

A small smile appeared on John’s face as he nodded quickly. “There’s only one problem, though.”

“What’s that?” Sherlock asked worriedly.

“Well, I promised you a drink, not the other way around.”

Sherlock laughed, one of his real, earnest smiles appearing on his face. “I guess you should ask me then.”

“Oh alright,” John huffed playfully. “Sherlock, would you like to go out with me?”

In response, Sherlock stood from his seat and leaned over the bed. He placed his right hand on the mattress besides John’s body to stabilize himself as he cupped John’s cheek with his other hand. Leaning in, he pressed his lips to John’s and let his eyes fall closed.

 _Yes,_ Sherlock thought to himself, smiling against John’s lips as they kissed for the first time. _I’d love to go out with you._

 

The End.


End file.
